


Wherever You Go (We'll Get There Together)

by RussianArmy



Category: Original Work
Genre: An unnecessary amount if we're being honest, Ashraf is just a dad doing his best, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Swearing, Zahra's adventures in the public school system, but it gets better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-21 18:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12463155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianArmy/pseuds/RussianArmy
Summary: Ashraf Halabi is a tired, tired man. He works two jobs and lives in a run-down apartment that stays in a constant state of disrepair, messy and broken and entirely unlivable if he's being completely honest with himself. His daughter lives with his sister because said sister deemed him an unfit parent, he doesn't have enough of an education to actively change his lifestyle, and he doesn't have the time fix that problem (one of many). All he wants is to spend time with his baby girl without worrying about how he's going to feed her on the weekends she spends with him. His life is in shambles but, hey, at least his new neighbor is kinda cute.





	1. Is it still Observing Ramadan if I’m just too Broke for Food

Ashraf Halabi was tired. Not the “Oh, I could go for a power nap right now” kind of tired but the bone deep, heavy kind of tired. The kind where you look at the concrete stairs leading up to your apartment and seriously consider sleeping there. He would have, too, were it not for the fact that he had an obligation to feed their cat, Baklava. He secretly wishes he could travel back in time and slap himself for ever suggesting that Zahra name her.

He trudged on onward, step by torturous step, now a man on a very mundane mission. When he reached the landing for his floor, he heard a soft voice coming from the hallway. Someone was on the phone. Someone who obviously doesn’t know what a dick move talking on the phone in a communal hallway is at eleven o’clock at night. Rolling his eyes, Ashraf dragged his feet from the solid concrete of the landing to the grimy carpet of his hallway.

At the end of said hallway, he saw a man – well he was hardly a man; too baby-faced, too “cute.” The stranger was surrounded by boxes, fumbling with his keys with one hand and holding his phone with the other. He looked to be standing outside Mrs. Johnson’s door. Perhaps he was her grandson. But that raised the question of what kind of grandson would visit at such a late hour?

Paying the man no mind, he walked past him to the door directly to the stranger’s right. Ignoring the phone conversation and poor etiquette on behalf of the promise of a flat surface to sleep on, he unlocked his door and went inside quietly. He closed the door quietly behind him and, with that soft click, all thoughts of the rude, questionably attractive stranger left him.

He was greeted by his reflection in the mirror above the hall table in front of the door. He looked bad. His curly black hair was limp and greasy with sweat from a hard days’ work. His skin was pale and his face was hollow, his beautiful olive complexion muddled and gaunt. His entire “look” screamed thrift shop queen…or, rather, king. He looked like some white Christian’s charity case and that was not exactly a pleasant realization.

Granted, there wasn’t anything he could do about it right now. He was already up to his surprisingly well-maintained eyebrows in debt, he didn’t exactly have room in his budget for frivolous things like new clothes or a spa day. Unless they were for Zahra because Ashraf would cut off his own arm to make his little girl happy.

All in all, Ashraf was a mess. A mess in dire need of a hot shower and a ten-year power nap. Pulling and prodding at the dark, sagging skin around his eyes, he resolved to saving up and buying some under-eye cream. And maybe some moisturizer because you can never go too far with proper skin care.

As soon as he’d made his decision to “up his skin care game” as his daughter would say, he felt a sharp familiar pain in his leg.

“Ahlan, Baklava,” he grinned down at the tabby cat currently shredding the fabric of his jeans, greeting her like an old friend. She meowed impatiently at him.

He scooped her up, prying her from his leg, and padded into the kitchen, petting her lovingly on the head as he went. Once his feet hit the faded linoleum, she leapt from his arms and bounded to her empty food bowl. She circled it as Ashraf dug in the pantry for her bag of food and the scoop. She watched him portion it out and move to pour it into her bowl. She didn’t even wait for the first ‘ping’ of the hard feed on the metal of her bowl before burying her muzzle in it, letting the food roll off her head and into the container where she excitedly gorged herself. Her tail flicked happily and Ashraf couldn’t help but smile lovingly at his furry companion.

He thought back briefly to when he’d first gotten her. He bought her for Zahra three years ago for her third birthday. She’d been a part of their small, moderately, functional family ever since. Zahra adored her despite the fact that Baklava wouldn’t even sneeze in her direction most days. Speaking of his daughter, he had to pick her up from his sister’s tomorrow. Which meant dealing with his sister.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love Wafa, they just had differing ideals that made being civil with each other difficult to say the least. They were better around Zahra but nowhere neat what was considered respectable by any standards. Despite their strained relationship, they still tried to stay in contact with each other. It’s how their arrangement came to be, in fact.

Said arrangement was centered around one thing: keeping Zahra happy and healthy. Because Ashraf worked two jobs, it was hard to do that on his own. He barely had the capacity to keep himself alive most days let alone meet all of Zahra’s very specialized needs on a daily basis (thought this was more the system’s fault than his own. What kind of government doesn’t have a set minimum wage that would allow a man to take care of his daughter without killing himself with overworking?). That’s where Wafa came in.

She offered to house Zahra most days; feed her, clothe her, and overall act as a parent to her in Ashraf’s stead. Her only stipulation was that he had to cover minor expenses every now and then. He hated that he never got to see his angel, but, for now, it was enough to know she was safe. And it helped that she was always that much happier to see him given their limited exposure to each other.

He shook his head, clearing it of all the negativity that thinking about his circumstances brought, and walked out of the kitchen and into his living room. He eyed his old, lumpy, well-loved couch, considering for a brief moment how easy it would be to just drop down on it and sleep there. He moved his hand to his lower back, soothing a phantom pain there. A pain he would most certainly experience in reality should he make this admittedly bad decision.

Ashraf closed his eyes and decided to be as adult about the situation as any tired thirty-year-old could be. He walked slowly out of the dimly lit living room and turned begrudgingly to his own room. The weight of his tired body combined with a fatigue known only to a construction worker made the twenty foot (maybe, he was prone to exaggerating) walk look so much longer. He could wax poetic about all the reasons he didn’t want to walk down that hallway right then but he was tired and even that sounded like too much work.

After a good half minute of internal complaining he finally willed his feet to move. He had barely opened his door before he was launching himself across the room and into his soft, flat, passably comfortable bed. As he pressed his face further into the pillows, he thought distantly about how he should probably shower.

Sinking further into the mattress he suddenly lost all motivation to do…anything. Having successfully avoided his responsibilities, Ashraf fell into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ashraf stirred, distantly aware of a far off, horribly shrill noise in the background. The more conscious he became, the louder it got until he could hear it clearly. By the time he could locate the source of the noise he was begrudgingly awake.

With a pitiful groan and the resolve of a man who had little to no resolve at all, he rolled over and slapped blindly at his night stand. His hand smacked at the wood, alarm clock blaring in his ears until, finally, his hand connected with the button and his alarm shut off with a click. The noise stopped, leaving Ashraf in a heavy silence. He checked the time through bleary, sleep heavy eyes.

It was five o’clock in the morning on a Saturday and here he was, awake and ready to face the day. He inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to work up the willpower to get out of bed and start his day right and was met with the ever-lovely smell of sweat and must and all the other grime he should have washed off last night (but was too lazy to). In short, Ashraf stunk. He sighed and crawled out of bed.

Once on his feet he made a bee-line for the bathroom. He pointedly averted looking into his mirror, not wanting to be reminded of his less than stellar physical state this early in the morning and shuffled to his tiny shower. Turning the water on, he stepped inside.

As the scalding water met his face, Ashraf could become cleaner. He could feel the grime of two shit jobs wash down the rusted drain as the water ran down his back. Another benefit, he found, was that he was far more alert; God he loved showers. The hot water and the soap and just the sheer beauty of a moment spent without that damned cat at his feet made for the perfect reprieve from day-to-day life. It was hard to complain about how your life was going to shit when you were busy being massaged by jets of hot water and surrounded by the smell of your favorite body wash.

He quickly set to getting clean, his desire to see his daughter overriding his desire to stay in the shower’s steamy embrace. In minutes, he was stepping out of shower, clean as the day Allah put him on this Earth. He toweled off, brushed his teeth and dared a glance into the mirror above the grimy, streaky sink.

He looked better, although the “toothpaste running down the chin” look wasn’t his favorite wasn’t his favorite. His hair had regained its curl, his eyes were significantly less glassy, and his skin wasn’t flat and dull anymore. He could stand to let his daughter see him like this. He was sure there wasn’t much left of his appearance to poke fun of now that he was clean and rested. Then again, kids always had a way of hitting you where it hurts.

He threw some clothes on, dark wash jeans and a plain white tee stained with oil from his always-broken car. He grabbed his keys, said a loving goodbye to Baklava, and was in his car three minutes later. Said car was a beat up junker that he’d had since he moved to the States. Her name was Gretchen and Ashraf loved that car like a family member.

He climbed inside and started her up, cringing slightly at the scrape and squeal of the engine as it roared to life. Something was probably wrong with an intake valve. Something was probably wrong with a lot of things given the car didn’t have a bumper or a right sideview mirror but those were problems for another time. He had a child to go pick up.

He was at his sister’s in no less that fifteen minutes, the Dallas streets unusually forgiving for a Friday morning. He parked at the end of Wafa’s long driveway and walked nervously up to the front door. After a moment of fidgeting, Ashraf sent up a quick prayer for civility and for Wafa to pop a chill pill and knocked on the big oak door.

She answered immediately, almost like she’d been waiting by the door for his arrival. She looked so tired, her eyes heavy and bloodshot. She met his critical gaze with a cool gaze and raised a quelling hand. She stepped aside and let Ashraf inside.

Wafa was a beautiful woman, a testament to their own mother’s good looks, who lived in a beautiful house in the beautiful Dallas suburbs. She was the picture of the devout Muslim woman; which Ashraf could respect despite his lack of any real religious convictions (his parents had been thrilled when they found out). She dressed traditionally, acted traditionally, and spoke when appropriate. Which meant, since they were meeting at her house, she had free reign to chew his ass out.

“How have you been, Ashraf? Has it been a week already?” she asked, her effort to be a gracious host glaringly obvious in her strained tone and forced smile.

“Oh, you know, same as always; broke, tired, ad oh-so-happy to see my baby sister,” he cooed mockingly. She rolled her eyes.

“Zahra’s still asleep,” Wafa remarked drily. “You know you wouldn’t have to work as hard as you do if you just got a college degree. I don’t know what you’re so afraid of.”

All Ashraf could do was stand there, scuffed boots firmly planted on the cool wood of Wafa’s polished foyer. He averted his gaze, saying nothing, loathe to admit that she was right but having no way to defend his life.

After a minute or two of acting the part of a petulant child, he spoke. “Wafa, when we came over here, my main concern was providing for you and Jalaal. I wasn’t going to put this family at risk just to complete four more years of schooling.”

“You act like those four years of school aren’t the difference between being able to afford to house your daughter and barely being able to cover rent most months,” she bit out, voice raising as her face reddened in rage. “What kind of father would set this example for their child?!”

Needless to say, things escalated rather quickly. There was a heated back and forth between the siblings, a veritable shouting match consisting of argument after argument volleying between the two, each one trying to prove whose intentions were more morally just.

“I thought you were watching her to support me, not so you could use _my daughter_ as a pawn to guilt trip me,” Ashraf shouted, breath coming out a little quicker, heart beating a little faster.

“Yes, and I thought your goal was to get your life together. It’s been three years since she died, Ashraf, you have had plenty of time to make a life for yourself without her in it and you’re still living paycheck to paycheck! You cannot expect to rely on other people the rest of your life, it’s pathetic.” She spoke coolly, her tone dripping with ice and vitriol.

That. That was the final straw. Ashraf was outraged, fiery Palestinian blood boiling inside him as he shouted, affronted and heartbroken, at his sister. “How dare you bring Carolyn into this, you fu-!”

He was cut off by the subtle turn of a knob turning down the hall and a soft, sweet voice calling out “baba?”

Oh shit. They woke up Zahra.

“Good morning, habibi, I’m so sorry for waking you up,” he soothed, crouching down and holding his arms out. He beckoned her over with a swift motion of his hand, a gentle curl of his fingers. “How did you sleep princess?”

She yawned, rubbed the sleep put of her beautiful hazel eyes, and padded down the hallway to her father. She eagerly fell into his embrace, nuzzling her face into his broad chest and smiling.

“Why were you and auntie yelling, daddy?” she asked, ignoring his question in the way only a single-minded child could.

Ashraf and Wafa exchanged uneasy glances at each other. All the heat from their argument had dissipated and was replaced with tension and a need to shield a child from the reality of the siblings’ conflict.

“Nothing, baby, auntie Wafa just didn’t want to see you leave is all. She says she’d miss you too much.” He was lying through his teeth at this point.

She turned in her father’s arms to look at Wafa, as if to confirm what he said was in fact the truth. Wafa swallowed shakily and visibly steeled herself before she spoke.

“Yes, my love, that’s right. It breaks my heart every time I see you walk out that door. It helps knowing that you will always come back to me. It eases the hurt a little,” she said softly, voice gentler than anything she’d used with him in years.

Zahra smiled brightly, eyes lighting up like that was the second-best news she’d heard all day, the news of her father’s arrival taking the first-place spot.

“Go get dressed, habibi, you look a mess.” Wafa said, affection coloring her voice.

And so Zahra did. Her wavy, chin-length hair was like a bird’s nest on top of her head and the nightgown she was in was practically falling off of her dainty shoulders. She nodded her head and turned on her heels to rush back to her room, excited to spend the weekend with her dad.

“Don’t forget pajamas and extra clothes!” Ashraf called down the hall.

A quick hair brush and a hasty goodbye later, Ashraf was shoving Zahra’s cartoon lamb-printed suitcase into the trunk. He moved on to buckling her into her car seat. As he leant over her to tighten the straps, she ran her small hand along his jaw, giggling at the way his stubble scraped against her skin.

“Daddy’s so hairy!” she giggled, the words bubbling out of her as she laughed. “Like a porcupine.”

“Are you sassing me? Has my sweet, beautiful daughter just insulted her father? The man who gave her life? I’m hurt Zahra.” One hand flung dramatically over his forehead as he moved to get into his own seat. The other was blindly trying to buckle his seatbelt. Ashraf did his best to look offended.

It didn’t last long.

“Baba, no one is gonna wanna kiss you with your beard all pokey like that,” Zahra stated matter-of-factly.

Ashraf just started the car, muttering something about facial hair being like ‘makeup for men’ and ‘looking distinguished’ and they were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading the first chapter of my story. This is going to be a novel length endeavor about the beauty of family and the struggles of single fatherhood (with a little bit of romance thrown in there to keep you lovelies interested). I'm using this as a way to explore my culture and to highlight the hardships that single parent families experience. BUT! This is more than just a ploy to educate the masses on lesser known social issues! This is a child born of years of idle thought and love and effort. I plan on updating fairly regularly but I have no organizational skills to speak of and it may take me a while to find my rhythm. I hope you guys enjoy it and stick with me to the end!!!
> 
> (Also, as a side note, I want to thank all of my friends. You guys are so supportive and I wouldn't have had the courage to post this here without y'all. Special thanks to my friend Jaden! She was the first one to read this story, was there when it was just an idea and not even tangible. You rock my socks off!)


	2. I Can't be a Bad Influence if I'm Never Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, lovelies! So to clarify, there is some use of Arabic (spelled phonetically). I used Ahlan last chapter and never translated it. It just means hello :) All translations from now on will be posted at the end of the chapters. Enjoy the chapter!!

After a quick breakfast consisting of the granola bars stashed in the car’s console, they arrived at Ashraf’s apartment. Ashraf shoved his key into the lock without hesitation, swinging the door open and trying not to trip over Zahra as she zipped past him.

Working two jobs didn’t leave a lot of time or energy for one tired man to do basic household chores on a daily basis. Or a weekly basis. Or bi-weekly, if Ashraf were being honest. This led to an apartment that made atheists want to cross themselves before entering. His apartment had the well-meaning, stay-at-home-mother-of-eight across the hall keep her well-manicured fingers constantly ready to dial the number for child protective services out of spite.

It wasn’t like it was _that_ messy. Picture a teenage boy’s room but…everywhere and that would be the spitting image of Ashraf’s apartment. Except Ashraf’s apartment had more febreeze and cost way more money in rent. The visual even makes it easier to liken his landlord to the nagging mother she is.

Without fail, Zahra would always comment on the state of his living space. Ashraf thought on all the things that had spilled out of her mouth in her previous visits, and, almost as if on cue, Zahra exclaimed: “Wow, baba, you should get maid or something. It’s so messy in here.” She continued looking around his small living room, scanning every nook and cranny with the perceptive eyes of a very small girl looking for an even smaller cat in the midst of the clothing and dishes strewn about.

Walking past her to get to the couch, he pointed silently to the slightly cracked door of his bedroom. Zahra flung herself down the hall and wrenched the door open in record time, diving onto his bed to grab at the cat that Ashraf knew to be sleeping in there. “You know she’s never going to like you if you keep harassing her every time you come over,” he drawled, sinking into the couch cushions in a moment of brief relaxation.

She reappeared seconds later, a squirming Baklava securely in her grasp. “What’s her-ass-ing,” she questioned innocently.

Confusion, horror, and, finally, understanding dawned on Ashraf’s face, the man making the mental journey of a father working through thinking his child swore at him and then realizing she had only asked a simple question. Before he could answer her question, there was a sharp knock on the door. Followed immediately by the doorbell.

Ashraf got up, out of necessity more than anything, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. The doorbell rang again just as he got his hand on the knob of the door. He jerked the door open, lips drawn in a tight line and one eyebrow coked accusingly.

Framed in his doorway was a blonde with one hand raised, a guilty look on his familiar face.

 

His very familiar face.

“You’re the asshole who doesn’t know it’s not cool to have private conversations in communal spaces,” Ashraf said, voice a masterfully maintained monotone. The blonde stranger looked at him like he’d just asked to kiss his dad.

Shaking his head, the man said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about but I’m your neighbor. My name is William Clavell.”

Ashraf quietly fiddled with his nails, putting on an air of indifference as he mentally eliminated his grandma theory from his mind. He took note of his name and lilting British accent. “How can I help you, Mr. Clavell?”

“Call me Will,” he started, hands steepled in front of his chest with the quiet energy of a man about to gesture all too wildly. “I locked myself out and the landlord is out until tomorrow morning on vaction…” William – Will stared at the olive-skinned man leaning, the picture of relaxation and poise, on the chipped wood of the doorframe expectantly.

Ashraf stared back at him, waiting for Will to say more or just ask for what he obviously wanted to ask for.

Rolling his eyes, hands held straight as daggers in front of him, Will continued, “Sir, would you be so kind as to let me stay here for the night? I know it’s a lot to ask for, what with me being a complete stranger and all…but I’d really appreciate it.” He smiled sheepishly at Ashraf.

Ashraf sighed and opened his door wider, stepping aside to let Will in. He took a glance at the couch, regarding his father with the eyes of a cautious father who had just made a mistake. A mistake in the form of Will.

“Oh, gosh, how rude of me! I haven’t even asked for your name. And who is this little sweetheart,” Will asked, eyes alight with curiosity as he observed the, admittedly small, Halabi family. As his eyes swept upward, they caught on the mess lying behind them and his face clouded with disgust and concern.

“My name is Ashraf and this is my daughter-,” the girl in question jumped off the couch to greet their guest. She poked her head around one of her father’s legs.

“My name is Zahra! I’m six years old and we have a cat! Her name is Baklava. She doesn’t like strangers,” she leaned in towards Will and whispered, “and neither does Daddy but don’t let him scare you. He’s super nice I promise.”

Will laughed, gentle and bright. His eyes met Ashraf’s. Clearing his throat, he spoke, voice lilting with the gentle swells of an accent. “To show my gratitude, I can help out around the house. It never hurts to have an extra hand around the home.” _And it can’t be good to raise a child amidst piles of clothes and empty takeout boxes_ , Will thought.

“Um. Yeah. That would be rad, man. Thanks a ton.” Ashraf motioned with two fingers, placed low by his hip, a silent cue to his daughter. She untangled himself from his legs and Ashraf crouched down to her height. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it almost immediately, acutely aware of Will’s presence on the other side of their threshold.

“Zahra, baby, I know you wanted to go out today, but we’ve got company and it would be rude of us to leave him all alone.”

Zahra fiddled with her curls, falling just below her chin, thinking.

“Yeah, I guess we’d be real jerks if we left him. I think he’s get sad.” She nodded, silently agreeing with herself.

Will glanced around, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, momentarily forgotten standing in the doorway of his strange neighbor’s apartment.

Ashraf stood to his full height, six feet tall with his socked feet planted firmly on the dingy linoleum of the entryway. He shooed Zahra away with a wave of his hand. He looked back at Will who was still and silent in front of him.

Not making eye contact and scratching the short, black hairs at the base of his neck he said, “I can, uh, start lunch if you’re still sure about cleaning up. I know this place is a bit of a mess…I guess it’s a good thing she’s not over often.” Forced laughter hid genuine insecurity. He’s a good dad. He’s just a little behind on time to take care of basic, everyday things like most respectable adults.

Will started poking through the clothes, making his way through the apartment’s small living room. He stared at the boxes and wrappers scattered on the floor, mulling words over in his head. He opened his mouth and closed it, repeating the process a few times over, trying to talk but not having the power to make his words come out.

An indeterminable amount of time later, the apartment silent but for Zahra’s girlish squealing in the other room as she chased Baklava around, Will spoke.

“I doubt she holds it against you. She seems like a very sweet girl. If I may be so bold, why is she not over often if she’s…well, yours?” A million questions burned behind Will’s hazel eyes, their clarity diluted with curiosity, the skin creasing slightly at their corners.

“Short answer? She stays with her aunt because I work two jobs. Long answer? Please don’t take this the wrong way but I just met you. I don’t want to bore you to death with the details of my and my daughters oh-so-tragic backstories. Also, some of the details are highly personal. Not like I don’t like you, gorgeous, but I just met you,” Ashraf spoke, voice humorless but tone oddly jovial. “You have to at least survive dinner before I even consider opening up about this.”

Will’s cheeks lit up; flushed, warm, and creeping down his neck as he felt his body heat up at breakneck speed. Gorgeous?

“Don’t worry about it too much, handsome. It’s just complicated is all.” Ashraf laughed, punching Will teasingly in the arm.

“Well, no, it’s just…I mean, really, you said-,” Will’s stuttering was cut blessedly short by Ashraf’s raised palm.

“Is it because I called you gorgeous?”

Will’s blush deepened, cheeks rosy and warm. “Maybe.”

“You’re adorable,” Ashraf deadpanned.

“Yes, of course. Now where would you like me to put the clothes that need washing? Which looks to be,” Will risked a glance around the grimy apartment, “all of them.”

Ashraf shrugged and pointed to a closed door off the side of the kitchen. “Washer and dryer units are through there. I really don’t care about separating by color or fabric so long as my uniform doesn’t come out some funky color.” He leaned against the half wall separating the kitchen from the living room and watched Will’s inner struggle at the mere notion of not separating colors and fabrics as if the very idea was offensive to his existence.

Ashraf hid his smile behind his hand and moved fully into the kitchen. “Are you hungry for anything specific, blondie? Because, if not, I promised the munchkin spaghetti.”

Will met his eye, a flannel crusted over with God-knows-what in his pale hands. “Spaghetti sounds perfect,” he said, tone as conversational as a granny at the grocery store as he walked, a laundry basket the Ashraf didn’t remember buying on his hip, to where the washer and dryer were. The overwhelming scent of clothing of questionable salvageability wafted over to Ashraf’s side of the kitchen and he fought hard not to gag as he dug around in a cabinet (the one with the broken hinge not the one missing a chunk at the top) for pasta.

Hearing the slight commotion, Zahra padded down the hall, bare feet nearly silent on the carpeted floor of the apartment.

Ashraf damn near dropped the store-bought pasta sauce cradled in his elbow when she tugged on the hem of his ratty t-shirt. “Baba, I’m hungry,” she whined nasally.

“Patience is a virtue, young grasshopper. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.” He patted her gently on the head in an attempt to pacify her.

“I’m not a grasshopper and I’m hungry now!” She wheedled, angling for a snack or two that would no doubt ruin her appetite and thus the lunch he made for her.

“It’s a pop culture reference, squirt. And tough nuts. You still have to wait because I don’t think you fancy stiff pasta.” Ashraf poured the noodles in a pot of boiling water, staring pointedly at his daughter.

The next twenty minutes passed in amicable silence, Ashraf manning the stove, Will doing laundry and scrubbing down the tables fully armed with an apron he found and latex gloves, and Zahra playing with the DS she kept at his place because Wafa wouldn’t let her have one. Ashraf set three bowls of noodles on the small, round table in their joke of a dining room bringing the sauce pan over to ladle sauce over the pasta.

“Zahra, get some utensils please. Come on and sit down, Will.”

Zahra all but flung her DS away from her in her haste to scramble to the kitchen. Before the two men were even seated, Zahra had forks and spoons laid out and was slurping away at her spaghetti in what would have been an adorably childish way had she not gotten tomato sauce shrapnel all down her shirt and the already stained table cloth. His nice, ‘guests only’ table cloth. Damn.

“What, does Wafa never feed you? You’re eating like Muhammed after his first fast,” Ashraf teased, tucking into his own food with an almost pointed neatness. Will just sat there, quiet and cool, throughout the exchange, delicately placing a paper napkin on his lap and silently arranging the silverware in their proper order. Cheeks bulging comically with food, Zahra and Ashraf looked expectantly at him. Will took a bite.

“This is…good food,” he starts, voice colored with false flattery.

“For imitation pasta sauce and cheap noodles? Sure. For a passable meal? Not so much,” Ashraf shrugged.

Several moments passed in silence, Will and Ashraf at a loss for words to keep the tepid conversation going, Zahra too busy shoveling food into her face to contribute as much as any six-year-old could to an adult conversation.

They ate and ate until eventually there was no more food to stall with. Reluctance to speak evident, Ashraf asked, “So that accent of yours is pretty neat. Where are you from?”  
Will’s accent was a dead ringer for the lilting accent heard on the streets of London but the British were very particular about their homeland and Ashraf didn’t want to step on any toes. He blames that subtle fear of British anger on the colonization of his people but that’s just him (he’s only partially joking).

Will brightened instantly at the chance to talk of what was once his home. “Ah, yes! I was born in London, England.” His smile was blinding as he spoke and Ashraf couldn’t help but smile back. “I actually moved here from there quiet recently.”

Will’s smile wilted at the edges, joy bleeding visibly into sorrow.

“Gosh, England is like a bajillion miles away! If I moved that far I’d hate it. You must miss home a lot, Mr. Will.” Zahra spoke with the soft conviction of a young girl who knew very few things about the world. But she knew enough to know Will missed home.

“I admit I’m terribly homesick. But Texas is…nice, I suppose. Um, Mr. Halabi-,” Will was cut off.

“Ashraf. Call me Ashraf,” the other man interjected.

“Ashraf,” Will started again, words hesitant as if he was worried about being cut off. “I noticed you’ve an accent yourself. A distinctly non-American one as it were. Where is it that you’re from, exactly.”

“Palestine. Born just this side of the river Jordan. I came to the states about 12 years ago with my brother and my sister.” He neglected to tell them that they were running away from yet another turf war brewing between Israel and Palestine. It was a story for another time. Like never.

“Do you ever miss it?” Will questioned, eyes downcast.

“Sometimes. I mostly just miss my parents. I plan on taking Zahra to visit one day. Ain’t that right, baby?” He beamed at his daughter when she met his gaze. She smiled back just as brilliantly.

Nodding fervently, she spoke, “Yep! And I’m gonna get to see the camels and the dancers and the pretty churches auntie takes me too (“Mosque,” Ashraf supplied helpfully). I’m trying to get daddy to let us stay there forever because it looks so pretty.” She looked expectantly at her father, eyes alight and seeking agreement.

“Habibi, we’ve been over this. Yes, we can visit. But my country is very unsafe for little girls and women and I would not be comfortable putting you at risk. Men in my country hurt little girls and women, baby, and there are a lot of rooms that would make your life so hard. Zahra, we can never stay in my country. I’m sorry.” As he spoke, Ashraf felt his pulse thumping under his skin. His fingers were wrapped tightly around his empty fork and he could feel Will’s eyes on him.

“But, baba, auntie said-,” She began, but the look in here father’s eyes made her mouth shut.

Ashraf looked pained.

“Your auntie isn’t your father, I am. I’m so glad you listen to her, but I will not change my mind on this. I will tell you more about this when you’re older and I think you can handle it better. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear but this is final, young lady.” His voice cracked as he stared his daughter down.

Zahra’s lips quivered and her face twisted into an expression any father would recognize instantly as the ‘I’m seconds away from a meltdown of epic proportions’ face and Ashraf was at a loss on how to stop the inevitable. Will continued to be blessedly silent as she gathered her dishes, all but slammed them into the sink, and stomped into Ashraf’s room. She closed the door and the floodgates open.

Will chose then to speak. “She is a very tenacious young girl, it seems,” He said, words carefully chosen. Ashraf buried his face in his hands and sighed deeply, like all his stress would be released from his body on the exhale.

“She’s too young to really understand that I’m not trying to ruin her life. I’m not doing this because I hate her. Can’t exactly tell a six-year-old that you’re afraid someone will chuck acid in her face if she missteps,” Ashraf paused, head jerking up, guilty expression melting into one of apologetic embarrassment.

“Shit, I’m so sorry about this, man. You’re a guest and totally new to our family dynamic. I know this isn’t what you signed up for when you asked to stay over.”

Will sat, eyes downcast and mouth pressed into a flat, expressionless line for a long moment. Just as Ashraf was about to break the superbly uncomfortable silence, he spoke.

“I’ve known you and your daughter for about an hour and a half. You are entirely right to say that I didn’t sign up for this because I didn’t. But it would be wrong of me to turn down your hospitality due to the normal goings on of a single-parent household.”

Will spoke carefully, with feeling and determination. As Ashraf processed those words, Will gathered up his plates and the subject was promptly dropped in favor of cleaning dishes. The room was shrouded in more uncomfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Habibi - A term of endearment, means sweetheart, baby, etc.  
> Baba - Father


	3. Love Me, Love Me (Just Say That You Love Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a family without a few heartfelt declarations of love?

They went from cleaning dishes to cleaning the apartment, only speaking to clarify instructions and the odd ‘Where do you even keep a bust of Marc Antony,’ and ‘Why do you even have a pair of underwear that say ‘Sun’s Out, Buns Out’ on the ass?’ (to which the answers are ‘Oh, just wherever it looks good,’ and ‘Because they were five dollars and absolutely hilarious.’). The awkwardness that had fallen over the two men was finally broken by the sound of a door opening and tiny feet heard shuffling across the carpeted floor of the hallway. Seconds later, Zahra appeared, head poking around the corner to peer in to the living room.

“Hey, baby, are you feeling better?” Her father asked.

She just nodded, curls bobbing with the movement.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He questioned further.

She shook her head fervently and clutched the blanket she dragged along with her defensively to her chest.

“Okay,” Ashraf sighed, “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be right here. Is there something you needed, angel?”

Zahra silently shuffled over to the couch and plopped gracelessly onto the cushions. Ashraf sat next to her, a cushion of space acting as a buffer. Will continued scrubbing at the coffee table silently as he observed the two, gloved hands working tirelessly.

“How is auntie Wafa? She’s being nice to you right?”

“Yes, baba, she’s always nice to me,” Zahra replied, exasperated. She wasn’t curt with her dad but the shortness of the answer was a clear indication she wasn’t ready or willing to talk to him in any capacity.

Seeing the futile endeavor of a simple conversation with his child stretching out before him, he set his sights on the only other person in the room: Will.

“So, Mr. Clavell, what is it that you do? As a job. For, like, money and stuff.” Ashraf asked, aiming for conversational and landing directly in the middle of socially awkward. Will laughed and stopped scrubbing.

“I’m a teacher. I teach the first grade at the elementary school just up the road,” Will answered smoothly. Zahra’s head shot up from where she was resting it on the arm of the hideously green couch. She was suddenly very interested in the conversation – and in Will.

“I’m in first grade!” She bursts. “I start in,” she paused, silent for a few beats, and counted on her tiny fingers. “three days!” She was beaming at Will now, leaning attentively towards him. Will couldn’t help but smile back.

“What school do you go to?” Will asked, glad to see the tension drained from her tiny frame. The awkwardness of the room was all but gone.

Zahra looked to her father to answer for her but Ashraf, embarrassed and slightly ashamed, had forgotten the name of it. His face burned red as, in lieu of an answer, he simply looked at her in a waved his hands in a ‘go on’ motion. She rolled her amber eyes and turned to face Will again.

“I go to the same school as you, Wi-,” She was cut off by a sharp, whispered ‘manners, habibi’ from Ashraf. She shot a half-glare at her father before she continued. “Excuse my manners, _Mr. Clavell_. It’s just down the street from here. I could walk if I wanted to. Or if daddy would let me.”

“Oh, how about that. Do you know who your teacher is?” Will ran through the mental list he kept of the names and faces of the teachers he met over the summer.

Zahra went quiet.

“I…uh…I didn’t get to go to my Meet the Teacher night. Auntie and I had to go to mosque. She wrote it down somewhere but I can’t remember where,” She mumbled, eyes downcast.

"Ah. Well don’t worry too much about it. You’ll find out about it in three days.” Will spoke brightly, years of working with and around children taking over in the face of the six-year-old’s distress. “Who knows, maybe it’s that lovely Mrs. Eames. Or maybe it’s,” Will’s face morphed into something impossibly warmer as he fell apart into peals of laughter.

“Oh, bugger, I was going to say something horrendously silly about whoever it is kids are into these days but I guess even I can’t maintain that level of ridiculousness off the clock.”

“If you said anything like that _on_ the clock I’m pretty sure I could convince the PTA to push for your removal. Jesus, Will that was bad,” Ashraf wheezed out, in between peals of laughter as Will’s face burned in embarrassment.

“Oh fu– I mean fudge off,” Will shot back.

They resumed cleaning after that, Will avoiding eye contact to protect the last shreds of his dignity. Ashraf burst into fits of giggles every time he so much as looked in Will’s direction.

Eventually, by the grace of Allah, God, Krishna, or whoever, the living room and kitchen were respectable again. Ashraf would be tearing up if his eyes weren’t already misty due to prolonged exposure to every cleaning product known to man.

“My god, I’ve got a shag carpet? Really?” Ashraf whispered, as if speaking at a normal volume would make his living room and kitchen explode in to a disaster zone again.

 

“And a couch. And a coffee table. And, believe it or not, an empty sink,” Will said, chuckling.

Ashraf smiled blindingly at Will. “You’re an angel. A bleach-scented angel.” He was still smiling, stupidly and uninhibited, when he pulled out his phone and sent a picture to Wafa. “Honestly, Will, I’m so happy I could kiss you. Screw teaching, I’d pay you to help me maintain this nice ‘a decent, clean human being lives here’ look.”

“I’ll keep my day job thanks,” Will responded dryly, voice indulgently fond all the same.

Ashraf looked at his phone again and his eyes lit up with the light of an idea. “Give me your number,” he rushed out.

“Wh-,”

“So you can text me when you get locked out again not so I can harass you about the inevitable decay of this apartment. It’s good to have a neighbor’s number. Just in case, you know?” Ashraf finished in a rush.

Will stood, quietly, for a long moment, considering the merits of giving his number to a veritable stranger (a stranger with an angel of a daughter and a wonderful smile, but still a stranger). He nodded, brief but distinct, and Ashraf shoved his phone at him expectantly.

A minute later they had exchanged numbers and Zahra had asked for a phone no less than three times.

“Oh, shit, it’s dinner time. Zahra, what are you hungry for?” Ashraf questioned.

She looked at her dad and then glanced meaningfully at his embarrassingly barren pantry.

“point taken. We can go shopping tomorrow after baba gets off work, habibi. Oh, shit (‘language, baba’), where are you going to stay when I go to work?!”

“Is Mrs. Duan home tomorrow?” Zahra sighed, too understanding for a six-year-old.

“Baby, you’re so smart. You know why I always tell you you’re the smartest little girl I know?” Ashraf asked with a grin.

“It is because I can add fractions?”

“Of course, angel, but it’s also because you’re so good at helping your idiot of a father take care of you. I love you and I will never, ever deserve you.” He picked his daughter up and spun her around, ignorant of Will’s eyes on them as he lifted her up high enough to touch the ceiling. Zahra was all smiles as she taps her hand lightly on the tacky popcorn-textured ceiling, entirely self-indulgent. As she ran her hand along the rough ceiling, she looked like she was living her lifelong dream of being an Amazon.

“I’m going to call Mary right now. Don’t go anywhere.” Ashraf hustled out after gently setting Zahra down, phone already in hand.

As Will watched his back travel down the hall, he said, mostly to himself, “Is he always like that?”

“Like what?” Zahra asked, still grinning up at the ceiling.

“Does he always praise you like that? So loudly and so…It’s just a lot of praise.” His eyes were on the closed door at the end of the hall.

“Yep. I think he does it to make up for all that time I spend with Auntie.”

“He loves you a lot. An exuberant amount.” He glanced over to see Zahra’s tiny mouth working over the word ‘exuberant.’ “It just means a lot. A whole lot. You’re very lucky to have a dad that loves you like he does.”

Zahra moved her gaze over to Will. “My daddy is the best. The best in the entire world. Even when he’s tired he sti-,” She was cut off by the sound of the door at the end of the hall opening and Ashraf bounding out, charming grin soundly in place.

“You’re going to spend some time with Mrs. Mary tomorrow while daddy builds a law firm. Sound good, angel? And we are going to have sandwiches and pre-made salad for dinner.” Ashraf spoke easily, sure of himself. He met Will’s eyes. “Sound okay?”

“Perfect.” He answered, his mind stuck on Zahra’s earlier words, wishing she hadn’t been cut off but knowing it wasn’t his place to pry for answers.

Dinner passed in a hum of pleasant conversation, questions volleying across the table (‘Daddy, what’s a law firm?’ ‘How old are you, Will?’ ‘Where do you work, Ashraf?’). It was determined that a law firm was a house of evil, Wil was twenty-seven, and Ashraf was a construction worker that did a little moonlighting as a valet at a moderately disreputable club.

Dinner came and went without ceremony, leaving Ashraf and Will alone in the kitchen, looking far too domestic than two strangers had a right to. They washed dishes together while Zahra took her nightly bath.

“How old are you, Mr. Halabi?” Will’s accented voice broke the companionable silence. Ashraf almost dropped his dish in surprise.

“I’m thirty,” Came Ashraf’s short reply.

“Thirty and working two jobs? Why is that?” Will questioned. Will mentally kicked himself for his lack of tact. He had no business asking but he wanted to know and his curiosity hadn’t gotten him killed yet.

Ashraf tensed, a barely-there bunching of his shoulders. He opened his mouth, closing it shortly after. Several moments and a couple more gaping mouths later, he spoke. “Oh, yeah. You’ve got to pay the bills somehow. Rent’s expensive, food’s expensive. God, daycare is so fucking expensive. But whatever keeps my baby girl clothed and cared for works for me.” His body sagged as he let out a breath.

“You love her. An exuberant amount,” he said, parroting his words from his earlier conversation with Zahra.

Ashraf set the dish he was holding down and braced his arms on the sparking, clean sink. When he met Will’s eyes, his own were wet with tears.

He spoke quietly and with conviction, tenderness and a slew of other emotions caught up in the crashing wave of Ashraf’s tremulous voice, “There is nothing – not a single thing I would not do for my daughter. She is my reason for getting up in the morning and I wouldn’t have the strength to live like I do without her in my life. She’s my world, Will.”

“I know we just met today, and I know that I it wasn’t under ideal circumstances _but_ I’ve seen enough today to know that you’re a good dad. A good dad who has been dealt a shit hand in life, sure, but you’re good with her. I interact with countless families in my line of work and I know enough to spot the unhealthy relationships a mile out.” Will’s voice was quiet, like he was afraid their shared moment of honesty would come to an end otherwise.

His hopes were promptly dashed as the bathroom door slammed open and Zahra padded out in a butterfly nightgown, hair wrapped up in a towel. She yawned and waddled into her room, closing the door with a click. Just like that the moment was gone.

Ashraf turned his gaze to the oven clock. It read 8:09pm. He looked at Will, gaze questioning and curious, like he was trying to figure him out. Like he was a puzzle. For the first time that day, Will noticed the dark, heavy bags under Ashraf’s eyes. He saw the fatigue set deep into his muscles.

Ashraf excused himself to go say goodnight to Zahra, leaving Will alone in the living room. As he walked down the hall and into her room, Will looked around approvingly. They had done good work that day, and, in all honesty, cleaning a house was a small price to pay for a place to stay. He wished that there was more to the apartment though. The living room was al but barren, containing only a couch, a coffee table, and an older TV set on the ground. The kitchen had nothing but the basics, old as dust appliances that were no doubt bought second hand and tarnished silverware taking up the space on the counters and in drawers.

Despite his living situation, Ashraf was kind. He’d opened up his home to a stranger and shared his daughter with him. He’d really lucked out on the neighbor front, in Will’s opinion.

Ashraf returned moments later. “I would offer you my bed but I don’t fancy building the frame of a multistory building with a crick in my neck. The couch is comfortable anyway. I’ll get you a blanket. Oh! Feel free to watch some TV for a while.” Ashraf was walking down the hall before Will could respond.

When he returned, blanket in hand, Will was on the couch facing the TV. He had yet to turn it on but the remote was in his hand. Ashraf flopped with little grace onto the cushion next to Will, settling into the downy green cushions and tossing the blanket at Will. He snatched the remote.

“We’re watching a cooking show or a home improvement show, but I’ll be a gracious host and let you choose which one,” Ashraf deadpanned in the direction of the TV, which was just starting to blink to life.

Will just muttered “cooking” and in for what was sure to be an interesting experience.

About thirty minutes into a show where people made cakes out of things that were most certainly _not_ cake, Will started yawning. Forty-five minutes in and he had drifted to sleep, wrapped in the cream-colored blanket Ashraf had brought him, his head pillowed on something fleshy and warm. _Definitely_ not the couch.

Ashraf did his best not to jump in shock when he got a shoulder full of face and a face full of blond hair. Risking a glance down, he saw Will, green eyes closed in sleep.

Ashraf eased out from under Will, gently placing his head on the plush cushion of the couch. He flipped off the television and hefted himself up off the couch. He walked quietly down the hall, avoiding the mirror by the front door with practiced ease. He shut his bedroom door behind him and set about his nightly routine.

Minutes later, teeth brushed and skin properly moisturized, he climbed under his threadbare sheets. He drifted off to thoughts about the stranger in his living room.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

When his alarm went off, it took all of Ashraf’s willpower not to smack it off the nightstand. The house was silent, as it well should be at 3:45 in the morning. Ashraf begrudgingly dragged himself out of bed, disrupting the quiet of the house as he shuffled into his tiny en suite bathroom to get ready for what was sure to be a long day.

Ashraf showered and made good on his promise to brush his teeth until his gums burned. He threw on some sweatpants and padded down the hall. He stopped short when he reached the living room. He had almost forgotten about Will. Almost.

Will laid, prone and lax with sleep on the hideous green couch pressed against a far wall in the living room, snuggled up in Ashraf’s softest blanket. Ashraf stood for a minute and just…looked at him.

Will’s blond (a sandy, dirty, tasteful blond) hair spilled onto the couch cushion under him, framing his head like a halo. Ashraf noticed for the first time the smattering of freckles dotted across his cheeks. Will’s full plush lips were parted slightly as he dozed peacefully.

“Fuck,” Ashraf whispered with feeling.

_He’s hot_ , Ashraf thought.  

Shaking his head at himself, Ashraf continued into the kitchen. The oven clock read 4:15am.

“It’s too goddamn early,” he groaned as he tried to make nice with the ancient coffee maker he had on the counter. It rattled to life, popping and gurgling ominously. Ashraf slumped against the counter top as he planned a way to tackle the rest of the morning.

First order of business was Will. Ashraf had to be out of the house by five o’clock that morning. Which meant Will had to be out of the house by five o’clock that morning. And, sadly, the landlord wasn’t expected to be in until eight at the very earliest. Poor sucker was probably going to have to bum around in a coffee shop for a few hours. _Oh well_ , Ashraf thought with a shrug. ‘Good thing there’s one down the street.’

Next on the list was getting Zahra ready, something that wasn’t really all that hard. Zahra, bless her, was always good with early mornings. He poured himself a cup of coffee and walked into the living room and back over to Will. He crouched in front of him and shook him gently.

“Hey man, you have to get up. I have to get to work soon.” Ashraf kept his voice low in an attempt to not wake up Zahra.

Will tossed a little before his eyes fluttered open, blinking away the syrupy tendrils of sleep.

“Why in God’s name do you have to be at work so _fucking_ early? On a _Sunday_?” Will grumbled, voice still rough with sleep.

“Because construction workers don’t get to sleep in. It wastes daylight,” Ashraf said blandly. Will just hummed and sat upright, wrapping the blanket tighter around him. As he sat up, ‘Ashraf struggled to fight back a laugh.

It was a fight he ultimately lost. A strangled, choked off giggle escaped him and Will shot him a confused look. Ashraf dissolved into giggles, leaning further back onto his haunches and pointing at Will’s hair.

Wil reached up to feel at his sandy locks but stopped short when his fingers brushed prematurely against a gravity-defying spike of hair. His other hand shot up to join the hand in his hair in an attempt to smooth it back down.

Ashraf couldn’t help but laugh harder.

He laughed so hard, in fact, that he didn’t realize that he had woken up his daughter. She waddled down the hallway and poked her head around the corner to peer into the living room.

“Baba, is it time to go see Mrs. Duan?” She asked. She rubbed the heel of her hand into her eye and yawned.

“Yes, honey. Hey, Will, there’s some coffee ready in the kitchen so help yourself. We’ve got to jet in about thirty minutes. Hate to break it to you but that means that _you_ have to jet in about thirty minutes. There happens to be a coffee shop about a block over you could go to…” Ashraf trailed off. He braced himself on the coffee table and hopped back onto his feet to help Zahra pick out her outfit.

She really only needed her father there to keep her awake. The poor thing almost fell asleep pulling her rainbow socks on. Thankfully, the fifteen minutes it took her to get her clothes on and get her hair brushed passed with little argument. At the end of it Zahra was decked from head to toe in rainbow fabric. Ashraf didn’t even try to talk her out of it because she was the cutest thing he had ever seen.

That left Ashraf with fifteen minutes to get dressed and out the door. He dashed into his room, leaving Zahra to pull on her shoes by herself. He threw his uniform on and stopped by the bathroom mirror to absently swipe at his hair in a pitiful attempt to style it. Then he rushed around, grabbing his keys and wallet and phone. And Zahra.

He stopped once more in the living room. Will was shoving his arms into his jacket sleeves as Ashraf tugged Zahra gently toward the door.

“Sorry to kick you out like this, Will. The landlord should be back around eight,” Ashraf called over to him.

Will smiled and nodded in response. He followed the family of two to the door, sliding on the sandals he had left by the door the day before. As he stepped outside and the door closed behind him, Will offered Ashraf his hand.

“It was really great meeting you, Ashraf. I’ll see you around?” Will questioned.

“Well we do live next to each other.” Ashraf smiled, crooked but enchanting, and shook Will’s offered hand. “Of course we’re going to see more of each other, man! Hit me up if you ever want to get together.”

“Thanks again for sharing your home with me.”

“Thanks for helping me clean it up. You’re real house husband material.”

Will blushed.

“Have a good one! Make good choices!” Ashraf clapped Will on the shoulder and started walking away, Zahra at his side. He threw one last wave over his shoulder and he was gone, leaving Will alone in the hallway.

After the sound of their footsteps petered off into nothingness, Will let out a weak “You too.”

His only response was the ringing in his ears and the resounding silence of the empty apartment hallway. Will sighed and started towards the exit as well. He had a coffee shop to find.


End file.
